Cars are for Cowards

Amid all the sunshine and happy thoughts yesterday I had completely displaced some incidents that happened while commuting last week. Twice within one day (last Monday) I had a driver and a pedestrian insult my manhood. Now, I'm not really too concerned with such words. They are interesting to note nonetheless. The driver yelled at me: "Get on the fucking sidewalk, dingle-dick!" Later that evening (like 11:15) on the Greenway some prowling ne'er-do-wells yelled at me "Hey, faggot!" as I pedaled by them. Both of these instances elicited the finger from me. It was cooly done (graceful pause, hand lingering high and proud for emphasis) as I'm gliding away. I consider it an experiment. I am legitimately trying to discover the best way to react to this sort of harrassment; because, let's face it, it takes the patience of a bodhisattva to do nothing at all. And I have a long way to go on that path.

I'm still collecting data. Suffice it to say that I have already stumbled upon what I consider to be one very significant discovery. Most perpetrators of harrassment do so only in the company of others. And most often they are men doing the harrassing. (I think I've only had two women get huffy with me on my bike.) The dude in the car had a woman in the passenger seat beside him. The chap walking who yelled at me was accompanied by two other folks (one man and one woman, I believe). This suggests something of power. If people think they can claim it, there's no joy, no release, no "Power Orgasm" if you will, if they cannot display it. This is helping me mull an oppression theory not unlike those espoused by certain psycho/social theorists. When a person feels oppressed they will project the resentment onto others whom they perceive to be weaker or beneath them. Of course, lashing out directly against the source of the oppression is far too repressed a notion to act upon. However, denigrating others becomes a symbolic substitute. And put-downs are most satisfying when it can be done in the presence of comrades or allies who will witness your fleeting and false sense of power. Simple stuff; we all know it from our painful socialization in grade/middle/high school. It is a bit disconcerting though when you see the same sad dynamic being perpetuated by "adults".

Last Thursday a friend and I were waiting at a stoplight on the ride home from work. The left turn light across the intersection cycled and a car proceeded to turn through. As it rolled by us and accelerated up the hill the driver leaned across his buddy in the passenger seat to hold up his right hand toward us. All the while he stared luridly at us through dark-tinted sunglasses. Presumably he was flipping us off. But he was wearing mittens. Dave and I were both extremely puzzled. I guess the kid understood. He looked to be high school or college age, but was already exhibiting the role that shared hate plays in American male homosocial bonding. That part I'm certain he doesn't understand. We got a good laugh as the light turned and we pedaled away.

Cruisin' on a Sunday afternoon

Finished re-building a bike last night after a stint down at One on One for the Artcrank poster show. Good times, lots of bike folk, bought two prints and didn't anticipate spending any money. The free beer formula works wonders for impulse purchases. Smart concept for art openings. That was the first show I'd attended at One on One. How many openings can you find where it's perfectly cool to BYOB?

Anyway, I went out for a rambling ride today, which is something I NEVER do. I'm always going somewhere, and usually trying to get to that somewhere rather quickly. Today, I just rode. I wanted to get off the road, too. It is a beautiful thing that 15 minutes (pedaling) from my house is a nice little network of trails around the Chain o' Lakes (5 or so of the 10K we boast in our fine state.) Nothing techy, and certainly not the gnar, but you can pedal peacefully through the woods and get away from the crowds sticking to the paved bike trails. It was sunny today and the temperature crested 30 degrees. Out of the wind it felt positively divine ... lie down in the grass and take a nap kinda weather. Mostly, I just used the down time to clear my head. For me that includes thinking and pondering just how magical the bicycle really is. You go places on a bike, physically as well as spiritually. Back-tracking, spontaneous turns, detours -- anything goes because there is no destination until you find it. Then, you inevitably realize that wasn't the destination at all. So you get going again.

One of my favorite things about a bike ramble is stopping. Yep, that's coming from someone who basically likes to carry a quick, constant tempo while on the bike. But stopping is nice. I heard the calls of song birds who have migrated back from points South, inspected snarls of cut trees blocking the path, carried my bike over railroad tracks and up steep ravines, snapped a few photos. And I stopped and took in the sun and the sky. I was gone from home maybe an hour and a half. But I returned in much better spirits.

Enjoy life, friends.

A Photo of Friday

Where do we go from here?

I tried to upload a happy-go-lucky image and attach something witty, but, alas, Blogger is failing me. We'll just wing it with text and hope that I don't get too carried away.

Last week, my friend Chris Zito was hit by a car at Hiawatha and Lake, sustaining fractures to the spine, arm, hip, etc. He got out of the hospital on Monday. His story was featured on the 10 o'clock news tonight. Bully, you say. Well, let's examine a few facts. Zito was struck from behind by a motorist who sped away. He was able to regain his footing and witness two more motorists driving over his bicycle in the roadway. The last part makes no sense to me. When you, fair reader, are navigating your car, don't you swerve for the slightest branch in the road? What of a whole fucking bicycle crafted for a man well over six feet in height? That's gonna leave a mark (on your precious car).

Well, blacklist me now. I am advocating the mandatory revocation of ALL such drivers' licenses. When will authorities begin to understand that there are a multitude of serially negligent and abusive drivers prowling the roads? I don't care if you've been popped for DWI or speeding. YOU HAVE A PROBLEM. Get it worked out and try to get your license back after you've addressed your problem. (You should have to appear before a board of cyclists and pedestrians.) Psychoanalytically speaking, your problem might have to do with a lingering sense of lack of freedom. If so, forget the license to drive and buy a bike. There's your real freedom, you miscreant nitwit.

Citizens observe war on foreign soil(s). And some do not understand why all of us ("Americans") do not back the war. Well, in part, (beyond many other obvious reasons) you may not understand that there are wars on American soil -- racial wars, social wars, religious wars and ideological wars. Well, speaking to the latter, the American ideology of the automobile cannot endure. Remember the civil rights movement? Well, it isn't over yet. And, I am not claiming to hold any ownership in that fight. However, I am aligning the cyclists' fight for recognition with the fight for basic, inalienable civil rights. Governments (and motorists) wish to hold cyclists accountable for a tyrannical system which has been created against them. Does the adjective "tyrannical" sound familiar? It should. It has been used to describe all that "America" is against, yet hypocritically, left and right, seems to uphold. The term was used in our Declaration of Independence -- remember that, when we called those bad Brits on their bullyish ways?

Yep, fuck you, automobile culture. When it's all said and done, millions will wonder why we spent billions combatting the mythical "war on drugs" in our fair land while ignoring the country's horrible and brutally addictive dependence on oil. Or will we? Hell, you boneheaded, habitual drivers so often seem impervious to the plight of humanity beyond your windshields. Maybe people outside of your cars appear as bugs. Sorry for the melodrama, but those who drive without brains are really irking me. Wake up, you fuckers.

My friends did the Slick 50, but all I got was this muddy ass

Subtitled: "Fenders -- Always a good idea for spring-like rides in MN." Yours truly forgot his camera. So, all I have to show for the 50+ miles of slogging through muck with like-minded, two-wheelin' friends is the crusty afterglow. We all met for breakfast at the Triple Rock, I sampled the Northern Biscuits and Gravy. Being a TN boy, I'm always intrigued whether the other half of the country can get certin signature dishes right (grits included in that list). I have to say the Triple Rock didn't do too bad and the portions were big enough to make Cracker Barrel cringe. Of course, you can't down two pints of Guinness with your breakfast at Cracker Barrel. (Hey, it was St Patty's Day, okay?)

Our group was of decent size -- large enough that I overheard one innocent bystander ask whether we were a Critical Mass ride. We headed west along the Greenway from Triple Rock (where they were later to host a tribute to Thin Lizzy) enjoying smooth, dry pavement. In Hopkins, that all changed. All of a sudden it was like I was living in the middle of one of those videos I've seen of European Spring Classic bike races. Mud (not just any mud, mind you -- fine, sticky limestone mud), ice, puddles, snow, ice, and mud. You just couldn't find the right gear to move efficiently through the mud. This made me envious of my single-speeding friends to some degree. At least they didn't need to worry about looking for the right gear. This mud was like nothing I've ever ridden before. It didn't suck the wheel in like a pit, it just seemed to create a surreal amount of adhesion between the tire and the squishy ground. The mud was like plasma, morphing between states of almost liquid and certainly not solid. I'm very glad breakfast hadn't included ingesting any psychodelic agents.

The group took it in stride at first. We were all getting pretty caked with the shit. A few goody goodies had full fenders and looked like they'd just stepped out of the house, clean as a whistle (Irish Spring!) The rest of us resembled rejects from a 1933 Tour photo. We pressed onward, however, drowning our sorrows in beer, flask emissions and foul sarcasm. Returning east on the Luce Line trail, Hurl bent to group consensus ("Enough is enough!") and we proceeded our tour meandering, via pavement, through posh lakeside villas. We took over a corner of a parking lot in Wayzata waiting for 2 riders who'd taken another route. While there we enjoyed 25 minutes of surveillance from across the street by Wayzata's finest. What a crock. I kept waiting for the dink to pull over and tell us we had to move on. But, he didn't. Maybe he was waiting for back-up.

We rolled back to Hopkins, tackling a few more miles of the trail we'd ridden out hours earlier. In some ways it seemed better, but it was still a slogfest at best. When we finally hit the true pavement of the bike highway again, energy (and thirst) returned. We were clocking 20-25 most of the way back into Uptown. We were back in time for Wrex, Trevor and me to get some heckling from B-Rose at CRC. When you visit B-Rose, bring some of your favorite Irish tunes on CD. Check out more words about and (actual action) photos of our quest for the holy gray whale at Hurl's blog: http://www.crccoffeebar.blogspot.com/

In the meantime, I'm thinking SheMan-o could benefit from our beneficial R&D efforts on Saturday. An earth-friendly anodizing pattern seems to accent their components quite well. Am I gonna wash it? No. It's supposed to rain/snow tonight. I'm planning to ride this beast to work and let Nature do the cleaning for me.

Oh, and I'd be remiss if I didn't profess my undying thanks to my partner, April, for letting me go play for the day. And, Sylvia, don't worry, Daddy will quit leaving you to go ride as soon as you can reach the pedals on a Trail-a-bike. Which will, of course, be outfitted with one helluva set of fenders.

Sometimes I communicate with Blogger using sign language

Especially when it won't upload my photos.

What does it mean?

When two side-by-side headlines on your online home page talk of a "Mortgage Default Tsunami" and Maserati intoroducing a new car? Well, there's a disconect somewhere. You do the math.

So, this morning I got cut off at an intersection. No big deal, you say. Well, the woman in the car cutting me off had attached to her trunk none other than a bike rack (an empty bike rack)! Ha! She looked at me the whole time while slowly pulling away from her stop sign (I had the right of way). Ah! Ah hah! And you drivers ... I hear from time to time that drivers are SO pissed off that cyclists don't obey the traffic laws. Do you know how many times I pull up to a stop sign only to have the motorist opposing wave me through (after a conspicuously long stop where THEY have the right of way)? A lot. A lot. Lots and lots. Thanks, but no thanks. If I stop, then you go. Drivers want cyclists to behave like motorists but then they bend the rules for cyclists all the time. It seems like courteous treatment, but it's confusing as hell.

So ... a message ... do you know why, as a conscientious cyclist, I don't obey a great many of the traffic laws/signals? Ahoy! They weren't designed for cyclists! Stop lights don't cycle for bikers; traffic won't yield for a left turning cyclist; etc. You drivers need to get over it. When I ride, I want to live. For the most part, I make my own rules of the road. Most drivers don't even obey the laws. I'd recommend you clean up your own crowd before attempting to enforce the legal high ground with bicyclists.